outside the rabbit hole is a candy shop of poison
by black-ostia
Summary: his hand runs up, fingertips hooking for a second in your collarbone, and then there's an arm curling around your throat. /hannibalwill/


**warning: do not read if you don't like non-graphic sex, or just plain unhinged boy love. yeah.  
**

**this is from will's point of view, of course. god, this show deserves so much more than this.**

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His hand is sliding up your naked back, a broad palm bumping on the ratchets of your spine. Warmly sweeping over and smoothing down your chest, tweaking, reading you like Braille, and when teeth close on your shoulder, his hand runs up, fingertips hooking for a second in your collarbone, and then there's an arm curling around your throat, that hand wrapped around the back of your neck, buried in your hair.

You briefly raise your own hand, tug at his arm, because you don't like it around your throat like that from behind, it makes you nervous. But the mouth working on your ear rasps out a warning and you have to let your head fall against the shoulder of the man at your back, but even after you do that, the arm tightens, and now you might be a little bit scared.

He doesn't care and he doesn't let you go and you've got your forehead pressing hard into the mattress. His arm is coiled like a snake, his fingers combing through your hair. His other arm is roped around your waist, and his tongue is in your ear, on your throat, flat on his own wrist, and he twists his hand in your hair, pulling your head around to kiss you in an absolutely filthy manner.

You have to break away, you're about to pass out. Between the arm around your throat and the air stolen from your lungs by his, your vision has fractured statickly and there is a high pressure in your temples. He laughs breathlessly, drops his sweaty head against your shoulder and snaps his hips hard, shoving you down into the bed and making you bite your tongue, because it's such a thin fucking line.

His hand on your stomach drags slowly down, his thumb following the line of your hip. You moan hoarsely, trying to get your elbows propped beneath you. He fucks around, teasing, fluttering his fingers, acting like an asshole because he knows he can. When he finally wraps his hand around you, something jagged rips up your spine like lightning.

The crook of his elbow is soft under your Adam's apple, and now his grip is strong, it's so tight, a stranglehold and you can't draw breath, you're gasping and suffocating, and it would seem that you're kind of a pervert, because you can't remember ever being this hard.

You don't think he realizes he's choking you; he's got other things to worry about, mainly the task of fucking you senseless. You have to admire his single-mindedness.

He breathes out, licks the place where your spine runs into your neck. He's found a smooth rhythm and it shouldn't surprise you that he's so good at this, because he's good at everything, but you're still coherent enough to wonder where he learned it, who taught him to pull away and hold for barely a heartbeat and then slam back hard enough to shatter everything inside you.

His chest against your back and he is growling, quickening the strokes of his hand, cursing and blaspheming and spitting out your name like just another profanity. You've got the cotton sheet in your mouth and the world is narrowing, siphoning off, fuzzing at the edges because you haven't tasted oxygen yet and it's deeply maroon behind your eyes. You can see the veins on the backs of your eyelids, laced like nets.

With one more thrust, he is groaning and his hand jerks on you and you come for days, weeks, as he slumps against your back, his mouth open and sliding wetly across your skin.

His arm finally loosens and you haul in air, hyperventilating. You go limp, your muscles screaming, and you start to shake from the force of it, his weight on top of you, slick and damp.

Your mind drifts away, as always happens right after you come, and you think about time travel and the infinity of space. There's a glow around you because you are among the stars, comet-tails of light spearing behind you. You have no body, not at this moment, and you sluice back down to earth the cleanest and purest you've ever been.

He is stirring, pulling his arm out from under your throat, over your shoulder and back the way he came, down your back, until his hands are on your hips and he pushes off, rolling away.

He sprawls on his back, panting, and you are shaking so hard. When you feel like you can move again without falling apart, you raise your head and carefully shift to look at him, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling too quickly.

You would like to touch him now, feel his breath and rapping heartbeat beneath your palm. You want to write things on his stomach with your index finger, you want to tickle him and see him squirm, as if the two of you were little boys, best friends.

You tuck your arm under your head, the dense smell of sex and wine clouding around you, and you watch him breathe for awhile.

You can feel bruises rising on your skin.

Eventually he sits up, slowly, testing his balance, the top-sided swoon of blood rushing to his head. You keep your eyes on him, your mouth against your forearm, your hair biting in your eyes.

He stretches extravagantly, the twist and the pull of his muscles under the skin, the sweet bent curve of his ribs. His hair is a wreck, sticking up all over the place.

He slips into his boxers and looks back at you, angles a perfect half-smile, half-smirk over his shoulder. He says, his voice only a little rough, "Thank you, dear Will," and then stands, tugging on his trousers, and drags his long-sleeved shirt over his stained body, the fabric sticking to the patches of sweat on his lower back and at his collarbones.

He picks up his suit jacket and tells you, "Don't be late tomorrow," and checks to make sure he has his keys, and then he walks out of your bedroom, and of everything that he has done that you have a right to hate him for, at this moment you hate nothing more than the fact that he did not turn to smile at you again before he left.

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**i still do not have hannibal down pat, and i am mortified of this. gah.  
**

**reviews and critique are love.**


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